


Steps Toward the Water

by peanutbutterandbananasandwichs



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Sam Winchester, Gen, Light Angst, Smart Sam Winchester, mentions of sam x jess, s11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6162517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanutbutterandbananasandwichs/pseuds/peanutbutterandbananasandwichs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter has come early bringing with it the biting chill of the years first frost, there is the hum of electricity in the air and people are going missing. Sam dreams of Jess and faces in the ice. When a young woman named Liz disappears Sam is certain there’s more to the case than first appears, whilst Dean is drawn in by tales of people vanishing on the shores of Coldwater lake, strange wordless songs and a woman standing out on the frozen water. It will take all of Sam’s cleverness, bravery and perhaps just a smidgen of psychic ability for him to be able to piece together the cases and bring a lost soul to rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: I was told that if you saw her

**Author's Note:**

> So firstly, this story has gone through a lot of different incarnations since it was first conceived - about a year ago. This final incarnation is, in fact, probably closest to the very first idea I had for this fic, which just goes to show that sometimes your first ideas at 2 am are in fact the best ones!
> 
> Secondly, trivia time! The title and chapter titles come from a song by Laura Marling, who's beautiful songwriting has gotten me through many hard times and certainly a number of frantic, sleepless nights trying to finish writing this!
> 
> Thirdly I would like to say thank you so much to the wonderful Pan (Winchesterchola) for the incredible art she has produced for this fic, I am bowled over by how amazing her work is - so please go give her art masterpost some love. She has been a joy to work with and I couldn't be happier.
> 
> Finally I must extend my undying gratitude to Sarah (Quakerhobbit/[UnabashedBird](http://archiveofourown.org/users/UnabashedBird/pseuds/UnabashedBird)) who has been not only the most incredible, patient and helpful beta anyone could ever ask for, but has also, as always has been the dearest of friends. I'd also like to thank the rest of my Sam Fam, for a) putting up with me rambling about writing this fic to them for the last month or so and b) always so wonderful and encouraging - I truly couldn't have done this without y'all in my life xxx

“Fuck it’s cold!”

Liz shrugged up her shoulders, trying, without much success, to pull her coat tighter in across her chest. The air was sharp with the threat of unseasonable frost and the wind that whipped through the trees above seemed to have a knack for unrelentingly seeking out every bit of exposed flesh, icy cold fingers crawling and probing across her skin, biting and bitter. The pale moonlight, unimpeded by cloud, caught her shivering hands fumbling with the last few buttons at her neck, giving them an eerie, deathly palor. Tucking her head down and popping her coat collar she forged onwards, stuffing her hands firmly into pockets. Home, and a hot bath, weren’t far off now; she just had to make it another quarter of a mile. Liz felt something prickle at the nape of her neck. Her short, curly, hair stood on end and she shot a nervous glance over her shoulder, greeted by nothing but the empty road behind and the inky blackness of the sky. Turning back she could make out the light she’d left on in the porch, glinting warmly just on the horizon. 

She wasn’t much further along when something crunched under her boot heel, and peering down she saw that the carpet of red-gold leaves, newly fallen, was set hard with frost. She watched in astonishment as icy tendrils crept across a puddle a foot in front of her and dew-tipped grass in the verge turned to sharp and glistening crystals. The air was positively crackling with the hum of electricity. Her pace quickened, eyes locked on that welcoming and familiar pinpoint of light, just out of reach, heart thudding loud and unnatural in her ears. Moonlight fell upon the frozen water up ahead, and she caught something skittering, seemingly just below the surface. A shadow, flickering in and out like a faulty light bulb in reverse. She was barely less than a hundred feet from the house when all light was abruptly shut out. Totally blind, her feet caught at the edge of a pothole and sent her stumbling over onto her knees. 

“Shit.”

She groped desperately through her pocket, fumbling with trembling fingers at her phone screen until the flashlight blazed into life. Liz’s breath caught in her throat. There, looking back at her from the ice, was the face of a woman, long black hair fanning out behind her, pinched features, sunken and sallow, eyes wide and cold and glassy. The flesh of the mouth was pulled back, leaving an eerie rictus. Cold and fear struck bone deep into Liz’s heart. She brushed her fingertips lightly across the woman’s cheekbone, the roar of terror screaming inside her to stop, to run. Wilful, horrified curiosity drove her on. The ice cracked, cleaving the puddle in two and there was a rush of air, incongruously hot, carrying with it something bitter and acrid. It snapped her head back sharply, eyes wide with fear as her jaw was wrenched down, her mouth left to hang, gaping open. She tasted rotten flesh and felt the overwhelming urge to vomit even as the air was still pouring down her throat, forcing its way into every crack and crevice, scorching her even as her skin was still prickled with gooseflesh. White ink dropped into her eyeballs and spread like it had been spilled across blotting paper.

\---

The body once known as Liz rose from the ground and clambered a little shakily to its feet. Fingers flexed experimentally, each digit curled and uncurled with deliberate curiosity. Her neck tilted side to side and shoulders rolled back, popping as they grated in their sockets. The first few steps were clumsy and uncoordinated, but it didn’t take long for the strides to smooth out, sink into a confident rhythm. The jaw was worked open and shut a few times, tongue wrapping itself around half muttered and long forgotten syllables, waiting for the instincts of this bag of bones to kick in. 

“Li..Lizz...Liz.” 

Yes. That was it. The mouth curled into a small, smugly satisfied grin. The leaves at her feet swirled around her, a cloak of gold, as a breeze rushed through them. When they dropped to the ground again there was nothing but the road.

\---

The cold light of the desk lamp stuttered in and out; the pop and crackle of a faulty connection somewhere cut through the soft whoosh of breath coming from Dean with every rise and fall of his chest. Sam reached below the table and fiddled with the wire, to no avail; if anything the static pops just increased in volume. He tried again, bending the cable gently in the other direction. For a moment there was calm and Sam allowed himself the small tug of victory at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t last long, as a second later the lamp let out a feeble phzzput and the light sputtered then died. 

Sam sighed, stifled a yawn, and let his head fall forward on the pile of books spread out before him. The desk was in front of the window and although it was shut the seals had clearly long since failed and the bitter night chill whistled through the gaps between the panes. Sam pulled himself upright, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrubbing his hand roughly through his hair. Twisting his chair a little he turned from the window to look across at Dean’s sleeping form, lying still and peaceful, slightly on his side and knees curled in just a fraction towards his chest. It was the calmest Sam remembered seeing him in sleep (or waking) for . . . years. It seemed an odd juxtaposition, to see him so still against the backdrop of the last month or so, since the Darkness had swept in and left a trail of chaos in its wake. 

At least one of them could rest. 

Sam padded over towards the empty bed, shrugging his overshirt off and folding it away neatly on top of his duffle bag; he considered stripping down to his boxers, but the chill from the window had infiltrated the whole room by then and he was glad of the extra warmth his jeans afforded him. Besides which, he reflected as he sunk stiffly onto the threadbare mattress, feeling a spring poke sharply into his lower back, removing his jeans required a certain level of comfort that he seldom, if ever, felt nowadays, even in the bunker. His thoughts stumbled for a moment, flashes of red light and black eyes and the sickening crunch of a hammer against a wall. Especially in the bunker, he hadn’t really felt that kind of security. Pulling the pitifully thin sheet up over him, he laid himself out on the bed, arms folded tautly across his chest. Tucked into the corner of the too small bed, his body subconsciously angled, ever so slightly, away from Dean’s, he let his eyes drift closed. The lull of sleep washed over him.

\---

“Sam.”

Sam stood in the midst of the wreckage. The burnt out husk of the apartment. His hands were coated in ashes, throat dry and raw with the taste of acid smoke on his tongue and caught in his nostrils.

“Sam.”

At the window. The light outside seemed too bright. There was the sound of laughter somewhere on the wind, light and trilling. It cut his insides to ribbons. Sam’s fingers curled in the tattered remnants of the curtain fabric, watching as it crumbled to nothing more than dust in his palm.

“Sam?”

He turned toward the voice at last. The bed was made up with freshly laundered white linens; the scent of flowers still lingered upon them. It seemed so out of place, here amongst blackened, peeling wallpaper, the charred remains of a hundred books strewn across the floor. She sat in the centre of the bed, like always, the corners of her mouth turned up in affectionate curiosity.

“Sam.” She breathed out his name and he drank it in like water in the desert. “You should help her.”

The light on the bedside table flickered, the sheets turned glassy, the light from each flicker glinting off them like ice, shadows dancing just under the surface. For a moment he thought he saw a face there, cold, sunken eyes staring blankly back at him. Sam watched as the figure of a woman stumbled to her knees, her head thrown back. The shadows stopped their shimmering dance, racing with singular purpose towards her gaping mouth. Phzzput. The lamp cut out and the shadows bled to one. He looked up and saw the bed was empty, sheets ashen and frayed. 

“Jess?”

\---

Sam awoke to the sensation of the morning chill catching at the strip of skin exposed at his back where his t-shirt had ridden up; a particularly hard lump in the mattress pressed into his hipbone. Through sleep-muzzed eyes he squinted at his watch. Five thirty. Well, he’d managed a whole three hours of sleep, not bad going by his usual standards. The sound of snoring from the bed behind told him that Dean was still fast asleep. Hauling himself upright and swinging his bare feet out onto the worn mustard-yellow carpet, Sam slipped out of bed. 

Muffling his footfalls with practiced grace, as he made his way over to the small washbasin in the far corner of the room. The tap creaked as Sam turned it, water little warmer than melt from a glacier sputtering into the crazed bowl below, tinged faintly red-brown with rust. He splashed a handful up into his face, ignoring the sting as the ice-cold water made contact with his cheeks. He drew his hand once over his face, washing the sleep from his eyes, and back over to comb roughly through his hair. The reflection that looked back at him in the mottled mirror was pale and a little drawn. He’d looked worse. 

Sam paced over to the desk at the window, leaning over to peer out at the motel backlot, dimly lit by the first tendrils of morning light and the halogen glow of the street lamp out at the edge of the lot. Long fingers of ice clung to the corners of the window and he could make out the Impala windscreen frozen over with frost. Deciding to forgo his usual morning run, Sam stripped off his t-shirt, quickly grabbing up a fresh one from his duffle and riffling around for a pair of socks, before slipping back into the blue and yellow plaid from last night. 

He settled himself back at the desk, his eyes briefly scanning the pages of the small mountain of books to locate where he’d left off. Just enough light now filtered in from the window to read by. Reaching to the right of the table to retrieve his laptop, he tapped an open document and brought up his notes. Ten pages of probably useless annotations, condensed down from the fifty or so books he’d brought with him when they’d left the bunker two weeks ago (to much grumbling from Dean). Another tap brought up the police scanner, which he left to chatter away in the background whilst he scoured . . . he paused, flipping the book’s cover over, marking the page with his thumb. Sands’ Treatise on category B unexplained phenomena in Northwest Michigan. God! And he’d thought looking for information on the Mark had been an exercise in futility. Turns out no one thought it important to write much about the pre-biblical root of all evil. Sighing heavily, he returned to his place. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been working before he heard the low grumble of Dean dragging himself from sleep.

“What time is it?”

Sam glanced down at his watch.

“9:30.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Dean’s voice croaked out groggily.

Sam gave a small shrug of his shoulders, neatly marking his page and placing the book back on the pile.

“You were actually asleep for once, thought I’d let you make the most of it.” He felt Dean approach him from behind as he talked and reflexively shrunk in on himself a little, repressing a small jump as Dean’s hand landed on his shoulder. He slid a teasing smile carefully into place and turned to face Dean. “Anyways it’s easier to read without you clattering around the place.”

“Thanks.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, still trying to shake the last of the sleep from his body. “You get us any breakfast?”

“Didn’t think about it, sorry.”

“How can you forget breakfast Sam?! It’s like the lifeblood of the day.” Dean shook his head in exaggerated exasperation. “Right, I’ll go grab some then.” A slightly awkward silence fell over the room for a minute, as if for a moment neither of them quite knew how to still do this, just the casual back and forth of mornings. Dean cleared his throat. “You want anything?”

Sam shook his head. “Not hungry.”

Giving Sam an overenthusiastic nudge, Dean turned his back. “Your loss.” He began rummaging around the far side of the room for a pair of jeans. Sam gave a wry smile when Dean let out a yelp as the frigid water from the tap splashed onto his face. 

“Fuck it’s cold!”

“Yeah, the Impala’s all frosted over.”

“Great.”

A fresh blast of chill air worked its way through the window at that moment as if punctuating the point. Sam grabbed up his laptop and perched himself on the edge of the bed, curling his feet up cross-legged under him and balancing the computer somewhat precariously in his lap, away from the immediate path of the breeze. The police scanner was still humming away, just on the edge of hearing, when Dean reached the door, about to step out into the frozen lot when something caught Sam’s ear. 

“Dean! Wait.” 

He swiftly turned up the volume as the door thudded to and Dean stomped back into the room. 

“What?”

“Shh.” Dean pulled a face as Sam held up a finger.

“How long’s she been missing?” 

“Couple of nights back, friend called in seven last night when she hadn’t heard from her. Must’ve gone somewhere on Elm Street from what she told us.” 

“Ok, I’ll get a couple of the boys to check out the area.”

“Just sounds like run of the mill missing person to me,” said Dean with a shrug of one shoulder, heading back toward the door, and breakfast.

“Maybe,” Sam replied, his forehead creased into a small frown of consternation.

“There’s no maybe about it, Sammy.”

“I just . . .” Sam paused. “I don’t know, something felt . . . familiar.”

“Yeah, every other chatter we’ve ever heard about someone not making it home. Come on Sam, cut it out! You’re eating into precious minutes I could be spending in the company of a greasy egg sandwich.”

“Go,” Sam mumbled absently.

“Sam . . .”

Sam looked up, trying to ignore the odd static crackle that filled his ear drums. “You’re right, I’m sure it’s nothing.” The corner of his mouth quirked a little, a small, crooked smile. “Far be it from me to keep you from greasy egg sandwiches.”

\---

The sharp frost prickled at Dean’s skin as he set out across the lot, his breath hanging before him in small puffs of fog. He was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea. Leaving the bunker and out on the road again, it had sounded so appealing. Simple. Dean missed when things were simple, when they both knew who they were and where they belonged. Sam in the passenger seat and bad things to kill. The garish neon sign affixed to a pole above the entrance to the motel declared loudly, “CHEAPEST RATES IN TOWN.” As Dean passed under it he caught the acerbic whiff of the tar from the ancient transformer that had clearly begun to melt, and the low hum of the three Es spitting in and out of illumination. Clearly his efforts to relieve the feeling of being cooped up were going unappreciated, since Sam was seriously reaching in his attempts to find a case this morning. Not that he was exactly surprised Sam was starting to go a little stir crazy: all he’d done for the last month or so was pour endlessly over those books of his, pages and pages of notes stored away on his laptop and more scribbled in Sam’s spindly, cramped shorthand in the notebook he kept tucked away inside his duffle. Dean puffed out his cheeks, blowing at his already frozen fingertips. Of course he was worried about stopping the Darkness too, but he didn’t quite see what good endless piles of research were going to do against something that predated everything. God he missed bad guys you could punch! The best they could hope for at the moment was to keep on the way they’d started, cleaning this thing up one consequence at a time. He’d never been much of a fan of consequences to begin with.

The diner was small and a little shabby-looking, but he could feel the warmth of the stoves permeating out into the street, and the soft glow of the lighting and muted buzz of chatter from within were particularly enticing in opposition to the conditions outside. A young woman, warm ochre complexion and short-cropped black hair, darted out across his path as he entered. Ducking lithly under the counter, she tucked a cloth into the tie of her apron and flicked open a small pad pulled from the pocket on the front. 

“Same as yesterday?” she inquired with an affable grin.

He feigned offense. “Do I look that predictable?”

“Kinda yeah.” She scribbled his order. “Egg sandwich, extra grease. Coffee, black. No brother--Sam, was it?--with you today?”

“Just me, sweetheart.” Cocking an eyebrow, Dean slid himself casually onto a barstool.

“Shame,” she replied offhandedly; tearing off the top sheet of her pad, she returned the little notebook to the folds of her apron. With a sly smile she added, “He was cute.” 

Dean rolled his eyes; there was clearly no accounting for taste. As she busied herself with the eggs on the small burner at the back, Dean leaned along the counter, grabbing up the newspaper that someone had abandoned there. A quick perusal flagged up several potential cases: a possible haunting downtown, a string of cattle mutilations, and something in the next town over that sounded suspiciously like a Woman in White. The newspaper was slid aside and a brown paper bag, going slightly seethrough already, deposited in front of him on the countertop, followed swiftly by a steaming hot, white styrofoam cup with a black plastic travel top.

“That’s $4.46.” 

Dean slapped a bill down on the counter, telling the woman to keep the change. He snatched up the bag and cup in his right hand, holding up the newspaper in his left and waving it. “Mind if I take this?”

The young woman, he really should have got her name, nodded. “‘Course. Pete left it here earlier and I doubt he’ll be back for it anytime.”

“Thanks”

“Same again tomorrow then?”

“Count on it darlin’.”

“Don’t you ‘darlin’’ me, mister. Just promise me you’ll drag that brother out with you next time.”

“I’ll do my best. He’s a bit of a stick in the mud though, Sam.”

\---

The door thudded to and Sam let out an unconscious breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, shoulders he’d kept hunched up by his ears slumping a fraction, posture returning to something less closely resembling a coiled spring. The distant electric hum persisted, however; he shook his head lightly from side to side, trying to dislodge the sound. He wondered if perhaps he was picking up another faulty connection, like the one in the lamp wire. He couldn’t quite pinpoint where it was coming from, but to be honest almost anything electrical in this motel room could be the culprit: he didn’t think that any of it was newer than fifteen years old.

He knew Dean would be gone at least twenty minutes, half an hour if he stopped to flirt with the poor unsuspecting waitress at the diner. That gave him just enough time to work through collating his notes from this morning with those taken last night, before Dean returned and no doubt insisted that he “put those goddamn books away for ten seconds.” He’d coded a little program to scan his notes and highlight and cross reference key phrases for him and he set it to work, depositing the laptop on the bed and going to fix himself a cup of insipid instant coffee; perhaps he should’ve asked Dean to bring him back something after all. Sam placed the cheap white cup down on the corner of the desk as he began to carefully stack the books strewn across its top, one by one, back into his spare duffle. The habits of a lifetime died hard: always pack up, you never know if you might be moving on. Even in the bunker he’d done it, his room alway fastidiously neat and bare, books compulsively returned to their shelves before bed each night, despite the fact that he knew he’d need them again upon waking. He couldn’t help thinking that this might have been a lot simpler if they’d stayed in the bunker, rather than carting around a small portion of the library. But Dean had seemed twitchy and restless since they’d returned and Sam . . . well, at least here he could just about stomach sleeping without the instinctual need for his fingers to hold of a gun.

A small ping came from his laptop just as Sam picked up the last leather-bound tome. He dropped it back down on the desk and turned his attention immediately to the computer screen. His program had finished scanning through the document, bringing up a series of neatly color-coded tabs, each referring to a different keyword or phrase. Where correlations could be drawn between one or more tab, lines connected them; the thicker the line, the stronger the relationship. He clicked through the first five or so, scanning briefly to see if he could spot anything of obvious import but finding little, as had been the case almost every day for a month. The story was much the same for the next ten. “Increased demonic OR monster OR spirit activity” unsurprisingly had a large number of hits, and connections to almost every other tab on the screen, which was expected, but largely useless. Meanwhile “new incidents of psychic activity” brought up only one result, but since the context it related to was the invention of a new spell in 1923, it seemed unlikely to be of much relevance to the problem at hand, either.

Sam sprung to his feet, pacing agitatedly across the sliver of space between the bed and the door, hand pulling roughly through his hair as he clamped down on the impulse to let out a small shout of frustration, teeth worrying at his lower lip. This felt almost like reliving the last year over again. Hours of fitful, fruitless - solitary, a treacherous part of his brain supplied - research, dead end after dead end. He sank into the desk chair, which creaked faintly under his sudden weight, head falling forward into his hands, hair falling across his face; he didn’t bother performing his customary ritual of tucking it back behind his ears. He felt the rising panic and tension within him, those blistering bubbles of oil constantly boiling under the surface, at the thought of re-enacting the last year. He took in a deep, shuddering breath as he fought to bring himself under control, Dean could be back at any moment and he couldn’t face the idea of being seen like this, with his tightly controlled composure slipping through his fingers. Dean. That was the difference, he reminded himself. The Mark was gone. He had his brother back. Then why do you still jump whenever he gets within ten feet of you? that same treacherous voice whispered. He clamped it down. His breathing had returned to normal, and he unclasped the fingers he had unknowingly clenched, white-knuckled, around the arms of the chair. Clutching hold of the abandoned cup of now-lukewarm coffee, still perched at the corner of the desk, he grounded himself. He downed the remains of the cup and, at last, pushed the hair back from his eyes. His mind still buzzed with static and he felt the beginnings of a migraine looming, but the panic had subsided for now. The empty mug was deposited back on the desk and exchanged for that last book, which Sam now returned to the duffle along with all the rest.

An influx of frigid air, followed swiftly by the crash of the door as it was slammed forcefully shut, signalled Dean’s return. A newspaper was thrust into Sam’s hands as Dean’s finger stabbed at an article in the bottom right corner, leaning in over Sam’s shoulder as he read.

“Whaddya reckon?” Dean inquired. “My money’s on Woman in White.” He popped Sam in the shoulder, the shadow of what once might have been considered a boyish grin playing across his features. “That’d be fun, eh Sammy?” Flopping down on the corner of the closest bed, he reached into the paper bag and pulled out what looked to Sam like several heart attacks waiting to happen.

Sam could see the cogs turning in Dean’s mind: a clean slate. After all, what could be more perfectly symbolic of a do-over than a Woman in White?

“Maybe.” He almost hated to say it, afraid to crumble the shaky foundations onto which they were trying to impose themselves. He scanned the article again, forehead creased in contemplation.

Dean took a bite of the sandwich. “What maybe?” he asked through half a mouthful of egg and lard. Sam pulled a face.

“Couple of things I guess. So at least two witnesses who were around not long before the disappearances say they heard what sounded like singing. Dad always theorised that Women in White were related to Banshees in some way, so if anyone heard something I’d expect the description to be more along the lines of ‘ear-piercing wailing’ than singing.” Sam paused, drinking in the stabilizing calm of a tangible case. “The other thing that feels a bit off to me is that one of these disappearances happened in broad daylight.”

“Well, not all spirits are adverse to a little sunshine, right?”

“True, but historically Women in White seem to be. There have been fifteen recorded cases between Dad, us, and a scattering of Men of Letters, plus a couple of other hunters - Bobby had copies of their journals. None of them have ever reported daytime activity. The lore pretty much backs that up: both La Llorona and banshee are generally considered to be nighttime phenomena.”

“God you’re a nerd.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Alright then spoilsport, what’re our other options?” He reached across from where he’d perched himself on the edge of the bed and snatched the newspaper back out of Sam’s grasp.

“A selkie maybe? That would fit with the singing.” Sam frowned. “Dean, when was the first disappearance, again?”

“Umm . . ” Dean ran his finger down the page. “Monday, sooo . . . two nights back.”

Sam’s gaze was inexplicably drawn over Dean’s shoulder to the bedside lamp on the far side of the room, Dean had left it on while he’d slept and neglected to turn it off that morning. For a moment it seemed as if the light skittered, the wall behind a canvas onto which a dancing puppet play was thrown. Something fizzed across Sam’s brain, like an electric spark of recognition.

“Sam!” Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam’s face.

“Huh?” Sam’s eyes jolted toward Dean.

“You uh, you kinda spaced out for a little there.” Dean said, scrutinizing, his lips pursed slightly. “Told you you should have had that breakfast.” The last of the sandwich disappeared.

“Oh, um, sorry.” Sam’s eyes flickered momentarily back to the lamp; all was still. “Uh, yeah, two nights . . . I was, I was justing thinking about that chatter we heard on the scanner this morning . . .”

“The girl who’d gone missing? Doesn’t fit the pattern though,” Dean commented dismissively, crumpling up the paper bag and tossing it overhand into the waste paper basket. “Wrong town, and the other three were guys, right?”

Sam hesitated a moment, head bowed slightly, and felt the familiar lurch in his stomach that had, somehow, come to be associated with the second before voicing disagreement with Dean. He noticed his fingers were twisting together, fingernails of the left hand digging slightly into the knuckles of the right. He let them drop to his sides. “I dunno I . . . I just have this . . . feeling about it. I think . . . maybe,” Sam gave a small cough. “Maybe we should check it out, or I can.”

“On your own?” Dean raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“Yeah, you know we um, we do that sometimes, remember? Split up. You’re probably right, it’ll be nothing, but I just, I want to be sure ok?”

Dean recognised the look Sam gave him as he met his eyes on the word ok. Stubborn and immovable. Worse than the fucking puppy eyes. “You’re not going to let this go are you?”

Sam let out a breath.

“Alright.” Dean sighed resignedly. “Go. I’ll head over to Coldwater, start interviewing witnesses. See you there in an hour?”

“Yeah, an hour’s good.”

“Ok then.” Dean pulled the Impala’s keys from his pocket, weighing them up and down in his hand a couple of times. “You take her.” The keys landed on the desk next to Sam, the clunk of metal against wood. Sam’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You sure?”

“Yeah... been awhile since I’ve hotwired anything. Gotta keep the skills sharp y’know.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth turned up a little.

A swift change into his fed suit later and Dean was headed back out into the frost. Sam grabbed up his thick grey woolen great coat, which he was now infinitely thankful he’d decided to bring with him from the bunker. Shrugging into it, he stuffed a black spiral notebook, the stub end of a pencil, a pot of salt, and his small silver hunting knife into the pockets, then strapped his gun holster securely round the top of his thigh. He followed Dean out into the parking lot. The clicking hum had finally died down.


	2. Left by the Shore

Elm Street, as it turned out, was a short stretch of leafy backroad, joining the very edges of town with the expanse of patchwork fields and scrubby stands of trees beyond, a handful of houses and farmsteads dotted along its length. Sam had parked the Impala at the closest end, and made his way out of town on foot, his eyes flicked from downcast to scouring the grass and the edge of the tree line, searching for any signs of a struggle. The road was awash with the red-gold of autumn leaves, kicking up around Sam’s boots as he scuffed through them. It was clear that no-one had ventured down this way with any real intent in days - in places the carpet lay almost knee deep. Frost, gilding leaves and sheathing grass in glassy spires, glinted sharply in the mid-morning sun. Sam let out a sigh, puff of warm breath hanging still in the air before him, breathing in the still serenity of the scene and the crisp, clear chill of the air. For the first time in weeks he breathed without the cloy of thick, stifled tension and claustrophobic closeness.

Up ahead he spotted a clearing in the leaves, where only a fine scatter had fallen. On reaching the area Sam could see that there was a ring of leaves piled slightly higher around the edges, as if those from the cleared area had been pushed to the sides. There was a patch of pale blue-white ice that covered half the bare stretch of ground, a deep crack cleaving through the center. There were no other signs of disruption. It wasn’t much, but it was the best evidence for a disturbance Sam had seen in the last mile or so, and something about the scene nagged at the back of his mind like an itch begging to be scratched. 

He pulled his EMF meter from his pocket. Spirits seemed unlikely out here, but you never --- screeetch --- the needle jumped. Once, twice, three times. The readings were erratic and . . . he turned, pacing back up along the round a little way and then down again and past the point; the needle continued to jump, a little fainter this time. Scattered then, but if the police’s timings were correct, the woman had been missing for almost two days now, plenty of time for the signal to get muddied. Still there was something odd about it. The pitch of the instrument’s screeching hum was off somehow, just by a fraction, but half a lifetime with a meter taught you all its little idiosyncrasies and this was not one of them. Stooping down to perch on his haunches, Sam reached out to examine the crack that rent the icy puddle. 

There was an earsplitting shriek from the meter, Sam’s hands flew instinctively to cover his ears and the instrument clattered from his grasp, skating across the ice, still squealing. As he reached out tentatively toward the meter, Sam’s fingers made contact with the edge of the crack. The cold was biting but it was nothing but dull background to the visceral assault that zipped through him like an electric jolt; his stomach lurched, the sound and sensation of bones grating, popping, twisting, cadaverous stench and a terrible and familiar sense of claustrophobia. Sam’s whole body recoiled from the spot; scrabbling to his feet, his hands struggled for purchase to push himself up and away, anywhere, just away. Grasping hold of a tree trunk he steadied himself, leaned his forehead up against the smooth bark, gulping down fresh air against the urge to vomit. 

Dark.  
Trapped.  
Hands.  
No.  
Stop.  
Please.  
NO!

Brzztz!

Sam snapped back.

“Dean?”

“Where are you Sam? You said an hour.” Dean asked gruffly.

“Oh uh yeah, it’s, I guess it’s . . .” Sam glanced back towards the puddle, a bone deep shudder running through him. “It’s definitely looking like a case up here.”

“Fantastic, just what we need. Well get your ass down here and we’ll have this one wrapped before lunch, I mean I’ve eaten lunch already but . . .”

“No.” Sam cut across him, “look, whatever’s going on here, it's bad Dean. This needs sorting now kinda bad.”

“So you’re staying?” The edge of suspicion was palpable.

“Yeah, I guess. This isn’t the best place to talk, can I call you back in a bit?”

“Sam. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. I just don’t know enough yet to really tell you anything.”

“Well so far local cops here have been pretty fucking useless. Got rough timings on the disappearances though. First two on Monday, one about midday, the other . . .” there was a pause and a rustling sound. “The other was around midnight. Next two on Tuesday, same timings, or thereabouts.”

“Sounds like a pattern.”

“Yeah. That’s all I’ve got so far though. Other than the damn singing.”

“Well it’s a starting point. Look Dean I really need to - “

“Alright go!” Dean grumbled.

“I’ll call again in a bit, when I know mor-”

Dean hung up.

\---

The walk back to the car seemed to take an age, as though the relatively short length of road had stretched out like elastic. Or perhaps it was that each step he took felt leaden. The sensations that had flooded through him on making contact with the ice! He wished he could say that he’d never felt anything like it, god that would have been so, so much easier. There was an angel blade in the trunk of the Impala. No. He drew in a breath. No. Nevertheless he absently twisted his hands together, the thumb of the left pressed with lingering pressure to the palm of the right. Just to be sure. The scene remained the same. Nothing but the road and the leaves and the bright glistening sun.

Focus.

Breathe.

Right. Right. So there was EMF, so this had to be a spirit, and judging from what he’d felt a powerful one, strong enough, desperate enough, to possess some poor woman. But then what about that pitch shift he’d picked up? What did that mean? And the crack in the ice, why had he felt that at all?

Ok good. Questions. He could work with questions. and there was the Impala, waiting for him.

\---

The sheriff's station was the other side of town and Sam had to drive past the motel to get there. He stopped in to grab his laptop and threw the duffel of books into the trunk. After a moment’s thought he returned to the room and made himself another cup of muddy brown hot water. He dropped down onto the edge of the bed, nestling the cup between his palms, fingers wrapping almost far round enough to meet each other in the middle. If nothing else the brew made an adequate hand warmer. He couldn’t stay for too long though, so he drained the small cup and placed it down on the floor at his feet. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Hey Cas, it’s Sam.”

“Yes, I am aware. The name on the screen is a helpful indicator.”

Sam smiled, huffed out a gently affectionate laugh.

“You ok? I know we left at a bit short notice, we - I - just had to get ou. . . Well, the point is, I should have checked in before now.”

“I am fine. How are you Sam?” Sam sometimes had trouble gauging Cas over the phone, but he thought he heard a note of concern in there, which was strangely comforting.

“I’m . . . I’ve been better.” he confessed. “But I’ve been a lot worse too.” He gave a small, dry cough. “Anyway, that, uh, that wasn’t what I called to talk about.”

“What, then?”

“A case, Cas.”

“Ah, of course. Please continue.”  
“Well, I’m not sure if there’s anything you can look up just yet but I thought I’d let you know that I might be needing your research skills at some point soon. The books I brought with me might let me make a start, but it’s not like having the whole Men of Letters’ library at your fingertips.”

“Of course.”

“Ok, well I guess I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.” Sam paused a moment. “Thanks Cas. I’m sorry to just call you up to dump work on you, I’m sure you have plenty to be getting on with.”

“It will be a welcome distraction.”

“Well, good.”

“Goodbye Sam.” Yeah, there was some warmth there, he wasn’t imagining it.

Sam grinned. “Bye Cas. Talk soon.”

He washed up the cup in the sink, stacked it neatly on the coffee tray and headed out to the car, his chest just a little less tight.

\---

The station was close to empty when he arrived. A solitary officer sat at the front desk, flicking with disinterest through the pages of a magazine. Sam gave a polite cough by way of announcing his presence; the woman looked up briefly, her expression held much the same amount of concern she had shown to her reading matter. He approached the desk, opening his badge and placing it down over the magazine.

“Agent Marling.” This wasn’t one of their usual aliases, but Sam made the badge up a little while ago on a whim. Perhaps it was silly, but it gave him a little boost of confidence and the small, somewhat childish thrill of knowing that Dean would almost certainly disapprove.

The officer at the desk looked up at him once again, this time with markedly more inquisition. She raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I’m here about the disappearance of a young woman, three nights back? I believe a friend reported her missing early yesterday evening?”

“What’s the FBI got to do with Liz going missing?”

“You believe she disappeared somewhere on Elm Street, correct?”

“Maybe.” The response was still steeped in deep suspicion.

“Well, Elm Street just so happens to fall into an area of Federal land, which brings it under our jurisdiction.” Sam was glad of the quick bit of Googling he’d done in the car outside the station.

The woman looked a little taken aback; she’d clearly known the answer but hadn’t expected it in response. “Oh, well in that case. . . You guys sure did pick this one up quick, it was only put out to the force this morning.”

“We have our sources.” Sam cringed internally at the cheesiness of the line, but kept his poker face smoothly intact.

“I’m sure you do.” She rapped her fingertips a couple of times on the desk before pulling out a ledger from under it. “This is all I can give you, I’m afraid; it should have a record of the missing person’s report from last night. I’m guessing you’ll be wanting to check out her house too?”

“Yeah, that would be useful, thanks.”

“Ok, I’ll jot her address down for you.” She took a sticky note off the top of a pile and scribbled on it, then slid the note across the desk to him. Sam took it and tucked the address in the back of his notebook, into which he then proceeded to copy the report details from the ledger.

“Thank you.” He pushed the ledger back towards the officer, giving her a sincere smile.

He turned to leave.

“You think you can find her?”

Sam felt his heart tug as he looked back at her. “I’ll do my very best.”

“Good. She’s a good girl, Liz.”

\---

Liz’s house was located on the town-ward end of Elm Street. Sam felt a wave of pity ripple through him as he stood on her front step and stared back out at the road. Not more than a hundred feet from her front door. She left the porchlight on; she’d have been able to see it from where she stood.

The front door stood ever so slightly ajar and it offered Sam no resistance as he pushed at it cautiously. He entered the hallway, taking in the thin accumulation of dust and the notable sense of absence that came with a house that’s empty when it’s not supposed to be. He pulled the EMF meter out of his pocket once again and it almost instantly flickered into activity, the needle jumping in the same erratic manner as before, that same oddly pitched tone to the screech it let out with each jump. The signal seemed marginally more concentrated towards a door to the right which, sure enough, also stood a little ajar. Opening the door revealed stairs leading down towards a basement. Sam clicked the lightswitch and, when nothing happened, switched on the flashlight function on his phone and proceeded down the stairs. 

The basement was clearly rarely used: there were a couple of cardboard boxes in the corner that looked like the remnants of unpacking from moving in that never quite found a home and not much else, besides a shovel leaning up against the far wall. The EMF meter was spiking all over the place now, and that odd sense of crackling electricity that had plagued Sam earlier, back at the motel, had returned. He made his way across the room, towards where the shovel was propped. The floor was little more than compacted earth, and someone had clearly taken advantage of this; directly in front of the shovel was a hole, about three foot down, and little more than a meter across. Pretty specific constraints - it suggested that whoever dug it knew what they were looking for and where they were expecting it to be. Whatever it was must either have been found, or not been in its expected location, since the pit was certainly empty now. Sam scanned the immediate vicinity, but found nothing, save for a small sliver of glass that looked from the curvature like it must have come from some kind of large bottle or jar. With little else to go on, Sam took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the sherd carefully in it.

\---

Dean was knocking on a door for the third time in the last hour or so. The woman who answered this one was short, blond, and bore an easy, affable smile.

“Good afternoon ma’am, I’m agent Jagger.” He deftly flicked the badge open. “I’d like to talk to you about the disappearances that have been taking place the last few days. I believe you were in the vicinity around the time Mr Wells went missing?”

The smile slipped somewhat. “Yes, I was, but I already told the police everything I saw.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to need to hear it again. The FBI are running their own investigation into the matter and it would help if I could get your exact words,” Dean rattled off with well practiced smoothness.

“Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt, come in.”

She led Dean down the hallway to a small but cozy living room that featured one too many fussy polkadot adornments for his liking. The woman gestured toward a couch as she herself sank down into the armchair opposite. Dean pulled out a notepad.

“So you were walking your dog?”

“Yes. I had taken Charles - he’s a King Charles Spaniel you see, not very inventive I supposed but well there you are.” 

Dean barely suppressed the urge to tell her to ‘get on with it’. 

“Anyway I had taken Charles out for his midday walk - we always go the same time - 11:30 - and I always take him round Coldwater - the town’s named after the lake you see. It all seemed quite normal, I mean apart from this weather we’ve been having the last week or so, I mean, a frozen lake in late September? Well that’s when I heard it, this kind of singing I guess you’d call it, except there weren’t any words, least so far as I could make out. and I saw, well I thought I saw, a woman. Standing out there on the ice.”

Dean’s ears pricked up at that.

“But I can’t have.” She shook her head, “When I looked back, she was gone. Besides that ice wasn’t thick enough to hold Charles, let alone person. But the singing, that I’m sure on.”

“Your story matches what I’ve heard from the other witnesses today. None of them mentioned a woman, though.” Dean tapped his untouched notebook thoughtfully.

“Well there you have it! I must have imagined it.”

“Well, thank you anyway. I’ll see myself out.”

Dean checked his watch, stood back out on the sidewalk in front of the row of identical houses. Three pm. He fiddled with his phone, for a moment or two considering calling Sam back, but damn it, if Sam wanted to be difficult, let him. A stiff drink, that’s what he needed right now. There must be a bar somewhere in this backwater.

\---

The diner, in stark contrast to the sheriff's station earlier, was packed close to bursting when Sam arrived, having finally admitted defeat to the need to put something in his stomach other than so-called coffee. He guessed it might have something to do with being the only place in town that possessed both large cooking ranges and the benefits of a modern heating system to steel against the chill outside. He picked his way carefully through the crowd, although by benefit of sheer size most people naturally parted around him. He recognised the girl at the serving counter from when he and Dean had come in the other morning for breakfast. Kit, that was her name.

She greeted him with a surprised and somewhat devilish grin. “Hey! Sam!”

“Hey,” Sam replied, cheeks coloring ever so slightly as a number of the other occupants at the counter turned to stare in his direction.

“So do you two have a pact then?” Kit scooted down to his end of the countertop, brandishing the notepad she’d whipped out of her apron.

“Huh?” Sam replied, confused.

“You and Dean, you’ve got some kind of pact to only come it one at a time now or something?”

“Oh. No I, uh, I just wasn’t hungry this morning and now Dean’s out of town for the day, so.” He shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.”

She flashed him another wide, devilish grin. “Who’s complaining?” Kit raked a hand through her short, tightly curled hair. “Just between you and me, this is much the preferable option.”

Sam ducked his head a little, hiding the tiny smile.

“What can I getcha?”

“Tea, and, what salad have you got?” Sam inquired hopefully.

“I can do chicken caesar.”

“Sounds good.” He smiled warmly.

“Well, if you can find a seat anywhere in here, I’ll bring it over,” Kit responded, returning the smile.

There was one small two-seater table right at the back of the room, tucked directly under the window, which was probably why it had been left empty until now. Sam unpacked his laptop and positioned it at the far corner of the table, still within reach of his long arms, but allowing him to spread out his notebook and the couple of books he’d grabbed up from the car across the rest of the table. He sent a text to Cas, “think I’ve got something for you, I’ll call you back in a minute.” and was about to call Dean when his phone started vibrating, Dean’s name flashing up on the screen.

“Hey.”

“I was about to call,” Sam responded swiftly, feeling ashamedly like a guilty child.

Dean grunted noncommittally. “There’s a body.”

“What?”

“A body just turned up at the lake. A couple of kids spotted it, under the ice.”

“Oh geez!” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah. Looks like the guy tried to walk out across the ice and didn’t make it.”

“He definitely drowned then? He wasn’t thrown in after he died?”

“Nah, his lungs were chock full of water, dude definitely went down with the fishes.”

“Do we know if it’s one of the missing guys for sure yet?” Sam inquired, flicking to the back page of his notebook and scribbled a quick note.

“Yeah, wife just identified the body, first one, from Monday afternoon. The coroner’s letting me in to examine it in a minute.” Sam made out the sound of a door swinging shut and a muffled ‘ok’ from Dean. “Speak of the devil. So you gonna let me know what’s up with your case now, or am I gonna have to beat it out of ya later?” Dean chuckled lightly.

Sam flinched. “I think it’s some kinda spirit. I found the spot where Liz, that’s the missing woman, where she went missing, the EMF went crazy, spiking all over the place. I’m pretty sure whatever this is, it uh, it posessed her.”

“Ghost possession? Gotta be one pretty powerful spirit then. Wait, how do you know she’s possessed? Have you seen her?” Dean asked with incredulity.

Sam took a deep, steadying breath. “Uh, yeah not exactly. Look, Dean, this is probably gonna sound crazy, but bear with me here ok.” Sam charged on, not giving Dean time to interrupt. “Ok so I was searching the area for EMF and the meter went off the scale, I dropped it and when I went to pick it back up it was laying over this . . . crack . . . in a frozen puddle and then my fingers touched the crack . . . and . . .” Sam’s voice trailed off, his fingers drumming nervously on the tabletop.

“Sam.” Dean’s impatient tone cut through his thoughts.

“Oh, um, yeah. So um, so, I touched it and it was, it was like, this, this flash I guess. I felt it. I felt her being possessed.” There was a moment's silence that seemed to stretch an age. Sam let out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, I know how it sounds, but Dean, that’s not something I’d just make up.” Like you never you woke up screaming, imagining Meg, or Gadreel, or Lucifer crawling around inside your brain? This was different though. Dreaming about possession and actually feeling it, the fear and the stomach-churning, gut-wrenching horror of it. No. That was something else entirely. “Maybe, I don’t know, maybe the ice acted like a mirror, trapped the emotions and then when I touched it, it let them out? There’s a couple of recorded cases of something similar happening in some of the Letters’ journals, um, Higgins in 1920 and, uh, Petri, sometime around 1935.” Recalling the journal entries gave Sam something to focus on. “I can send them over if you’d like?”

“Sam.” 

“Yeah?”

Dean’s voice softened. “Sam, it's ok. Do you know anything else?”

Sam recounted his visit to Liz’s house.

“So this ghost, spirit, whatever, takes this girl for a joyride, then takes her back home to dig holes in her cellar? Pretty crappy first date if you ask me.”

Sam’s lips tightened. “There’s no sign of them now though. Oh, I almost forgot. So get this, there was EMF everywhere, but there was something off about it, I can’t quite put my finger on it but, yeah, it wasn’t like a normal EMF signal at all.” Sam glanced down at his watch. “Shit! I said I’d call Cas back in a minute ten minutes ago.”

“I’m sure your boyfriend will be all right without you.” Sam could practically feel Dean roll his eyes.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but Cas has a tendency to be kinda literal sometimes. Anyway, I was going to ask him to see if he can find anything in the library records about weird EMF signatures. You want me to ask him to look up anything for you?”

“Not that I can think of at the moment. I guess I should go see a coroner about a stiff.”

“Yeah ok.” Sam ran his free hand through his hair. “Dean. Be careful.”

“You know me, I’m always careful.”

Sam snorted, “yeah right! Talk later.”

“Ok.”

\---

Cas, thankfully, hadn’t been waiting too long for Sam to call; he was perhaps sometimes better at picking up humans’ lack of literalism than Sam had given him credit for. Just as Sam put the phone down, Kit appeared at the table with a plate that was piled pleasingly high with leafy green. Sam thanked her and she smiled widely in return with a “my pleasure”, before scooting off back toward the counter, where a small queue had already begun to form.


	3. Where undine last was seen

Sam took a forkful of the salad - it was good - and set to work looking for deaths that were possible candidates for spirit activity. The obvious place to start seemed to be Liz’s house - since clearly whatever had taken possession of her had been looking for something there.

He pushed the plate back a little and pulled the laptop in front of him. Half a forkful of lettuce, a quick perusal of the county building records and he’d found something promising. It turned out the house was built on the site of an old convent, knocked down in 1959; the house had been built a couple of years later. It seemed like as likely a place as any to start looking.

Sam pulled out his notebook and jotted down a note, pushing his salad around the plate with the fork for a couple of minutes with the absent minded habit of years. He took another bite and turned his attention back to the computer. There were a number of recorded deaths associated with the convent, but one incident in particular caught his eye as being unusual. It was also the only case considered noteworthy enough to have made the local newspapers - he pulled up two articles.

\---  
February 2nd 1958 - CONVENT DOUBLE HOMICIDE

Police were called to the Elm Street Convent late last night to investigate the murder of two young novices - Sarah Percival (18) and Jasmine Thompson (19). The bodies of the two nuns-in-training were discovered by Sister Mary Margaret - their throats slit. 

The grisly incident was attended by Sheriff Whitworth, who described the scene as one of seemingly “quick and dispassionate dispatch.” The two girls appear to have been restrained prior to death. 

Investigations are ongoing. At present, no obvious suspects have yet come to light.  
\---

A second article, dated a month or so after the convent’s closure, contained much the same information. It confirmed that no one had ever been formally arrested for the murders, adding that suspicion had quickly fallen amongst the occupants and many believed had lead to the decision to close.

Sam tucked a strand of stray hair behind his ear and fiddled with his fork a moment longer before taking a final, larger, forkful and pushing the plate back across the table.

He was still taking careful notes - trying find some way of tying together the scant fragments of information he’d accumulated - when Kit reappeared. She glowered somewhat disapprovingly at the abandoned, half-finished plate, but leant in to take it anyway. Something on Sam’s laptop screen clearly caught her eye as she reached across the table, and she stopped midway through the action, letting go of the plate and swiftly pulling up the spare chair, dropping herself down into it.

“You’re looking at the old convent murders?” She leaned in conspiratorially.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam responded, somewhat thrown by this sudden interest. “Just, you know, looking up local history. Can’t beat a good murder.” He gave a nervous chuckle.

Kit shook her head and seemed to make a decision. “Sam, I know hunters when I see them.”

“What?” Sam stared back at her, dumbfounded and more than a little thrown.

“Grew up around them, my mom was one. She died when I was nineteen.”

Sam inclined his head a little in understanding.

“I clocked you two as soon as you walked in here.” She gave him a lopsided grin, “If I hadn’t got it before then, your brother sitting at my counter circling every weird occurrence in the last week or so in that newspaper was a pretty big tip-off.”

“Oh.” Sam flushed a little, “are we that obvious?”  
“I mean, you both kinda fit some stereotypes, let’s put it that way.” She gesticulated in his general direction. “The plaid’s bit last season colour palate wise - I hear green and orange is all the rage in the hunter community these days.” She flashed him another of her devilish grins, to which he couldn’t help but respond with genuine laughter.

“I have to admit, I usually leave your lot well alone; I’ve had enough of hunters for a lifetime on the whole. But . . .” She hesitated a moment, seeming to weigh something up. “I walk past that house they built on the old site every weekend when I go see my grandma. And for the last few months it’s the same every time, I go past the front door and this, I don’t know how to describe it exactly, but it's like someone whispering in my ear, like white noise or static or something.”

Sam leaned forward in fervent interest at this.

“I’ve always been able to pick up on stuff other people didn’t. Mom took me with her sometimes when she’d go on a hunt - used to call me her ‘early warning system.’ But recently it’s been getting stronger, and I’ve been getting nothing but that same whispering static off you since you came in here.”

As though in response to this revelation, the popping crackle in his eardrums reasserted its presence. He shook his head a fraction; he couldn’t tell if Kit had noticed the gesture or not.

“So how much do you know about the convent deaths?” he inquired.

\---

“As I said before, all the evidence is consistent with asphyxiation by drowning: clear signs of hypoxia, bloodshot eyes, water in the lungs. Pretty much what you’d expect from the conditions under which he was found. Atrophy of the tissues has been significantly delayed due to the cold water. I can’t give you time of death, I’m afraid.” The coroner glanced up at Dean from her notes, awaiting a response.

“Anything else?” Dean inquired.

“Yes, there was one other thing.” 

She tapped her pen absently against the clipboard as she moved round to the other side of the table. Pulling back the sheet covering the dead man, she revealed a roughly oval mark, about the size of someone’s palm, directly over his heart. 

“I’ve not seen anything else quite like it.”

She leant backwards so as not to block the light as Dean bent over and took a picture of the strange marking on his phone. 

“It almost looks like a burn, though how he’d manage to get burnt whilst drowning in freezing cold water is your guess as good as mine.”

She scribbled a quick signature at the bottom of a page at the back of her clipboard and handed it over to Dean. “That’s your copy, agent; I can forward you my full report tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks.” Dean folded the sheet into his coat pocket.

He’d clearly kept her longer than she would have liked, as he was impatiently shepherded towards the exit. The coroner locked the door behind them and gave him a slightly terse nod as he bid her goodnight.

Dean made for the car he’d ‘borrowed’ from the motel lot earlier that morning, sliding into the front seat before pulling out his phone. He examined the photo of the marking over the guy’s heart for a couple of seconds, but nothing obvious sprang to mind.

‘Just got done with coroner. Drowned. Weird mark on chest. Sending you pic now.’

Dean tapped out the message to Sam then settled back, leaning against the headrest awaiting a reply. Sure enough, a minute or so later, ‘On it’ arrived in his inbox.

Well it was coming up on ten; there wasn’t much else he could do tonight.

‘Heading back to motel. See you there. Don’t stay out all night.’

\---

“Run me through it again.” Kit looked questioningly at his notebook, which he obligingly slid over to her. She skimmed her finger across the page.

“Liz went missing some time on Monday night, from what I saw,” and felt, he added silently; he wasn’t sure quite how to work that bit in yet - though it seemed if anyone was going believe him on this it was Kit. “From what I saw up there I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of ghost possession.”

“I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“They are rare: they require a very strong and usually angry or desperate spirit to pull off. But there was something off about it - something I’m hoping my friend Cas can help us out with.”

He hadn’t meant to draw her further into the case, but once they had started talking it had seemed only natural to run the details past her. He had to admit, it was nice, having someone other than Dean to brainstorm with. Kit’s affable manner made her easy to talk with. 

“Then there’s the hole in the basement and that bit of glass you found.” She picked up the shard he’d pulled out of his pocket and turned it over in her hands for a moment.

“Yeah, I’m still not sure what to make of that.” His forehead creased in quiet contemplation. “And then there’s the stuff from Dean’s case -”

Sam’s phone buzzed quietly at his left elbow. He read the message and saved the attached image to his phone, shooting off a quick reply before turning the screen to Kit to let her see the markings on the man’s chest.

“Any clue?”

Kit shrugged in response.  
“Worth a try,” he sighed, pushing his hair back.

The diner was empty save for one or two stragglers whom Kit, briefly excusing herself, got up to shoo out the door, flipping the sign to ‘closed’ as she hurried the last of them on.

Sam took the opportunity to send another message to Cas, forwarding the picture of the markings and asking if he could cross-reference anything they had in the library with them or any of the other evidence they had: the EMF, the murders, the singing out on the lake. He suddenly deeply wished they were within travelling distance of the bunker - he couldn’t help but feel guilty putting all this extra work on Cas.

Dean let him know he was headed back to the motel and Sam briefly considered whether he should maybe do the same, sleep could be good right now. But he was pretty sure he was unlikely to actually fall into slumber, between his compulsive need to make further headway on the cases at hand and the seemingly unending quest for information on the Darkness.

There was also the quiet little voice at the back of his mind that was loathe to return to the close quarters of the room.

Kit returned to the table, pulling off her apron and dropping it behind the counter on her way.

“You look exhausted.” She sat down opposite him again.

“Probably, yeah.” He shook his head again as the buzzing got louder once more.

She didn’t acknowledge the action but continued to look at him with concern.

\---

Dean arrived back at the motel to find the room empty. He hadn’t really expected Sam to be back just yet - more inclined as he was than Dean to burn the midnight oil.

He sat himself at the desk, rifling idly through some of Sam’s books and half glancing at the couple of scribbled notes in his notebook. He let out a sigh. This wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He considered calling Sam and asking him to come back and work on this together, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. A couple more minutes of staring half heartedly at the pages before him and a quick glance at his watch made up Dean’s mind for him. He snatched his coat back off the bed where he’d chucked it upon entering, grabbed an extra set of salt rounds, a small silver knife and a wooden stake - that should cover most bases - and headed back out into the night.

\---

“Cas? Have you got something?” Kit placed a cup of coffee down on the table next to him as he grabbed up his phone to answer the incoming call.

“I found nothing of relevance to the picture you sent me.”

Sam’s heart sank. “Oh well, that’s alright Cas, we’ll keep looking -”

“I did however find something that may be of interest,” Cas continued. There was a brief pause and a faint rustling sound. “It is an entry from a Men of Letters Journal it appears to relate to the deaths you related in your last message.”

“That’s great! I don’t know what I’d, uh, what we’d do without you sometimes.”

“You keep the library well organised, that certainly aided in my search.” Sam grinned a little at that.

“There is a note attached that says you have . . . ‘digitized this journal’.”

“Even better! If you can get to the central computer I can tell you how to send the relevant entry to me.”

“I can do that, yes.”

“Thanks Cas.”

“I will endeavour to keep looking for, as you would say, ‘something on’ the EMF.”

“Ok, I’ll let you know if I find anything at my end.”

\---

Dean stood at the edge of the Coldwater. 

The night was another one of cloudless sky and shimmering moonlight. Shadows played and danced across the ice, eerie and beautiful. The air was still, but he felt the prickle and tasted the bitter, coppery tang of electricity that flickered all around him. There was, just on the edge of hearing, a sound. Sweet, clear, and wordless. The voice struck right to his core, chilling like the sharp bite of the frozen wind, yet enticing in its strangeness. The song wrapped around him; he felt it as it penetrated deep into his limbs, striking them leaden and stiff, locked in rigor to his sides. 

Somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

\---

The email from Cas containing the Men of Letters Journal pinged up in the corner of Sam’s computer screen. He eagerly double tapped the attachment and began to read the entry aloud.

\---  
February 1st 1958

Myself and Jones were dispatched to investigate a series of unusual disappearances - thought to perhaps be related to demon activity - at a convent. This was to be my first case as a fully invested Woman of Letters. As one of only two to hold such a title at present the weight of expectation to achieve success was not lost on me - unfortunately I must now chronicle here that our mission was indeed a failure, though I hope that the information I record here may yet prove useful.  
\---

He hoped it would prove so too. He skimmed through the entry, stopping to read in more depth again when he reached a salient paragraph.

\---  
Although our lines of questioning had not revealed much of any obvious value, we pressed on with our investigation. It was Jones who first spotted the strange light emanating from the a cracked open doorway that we quickly discovered lead down into the cellar. It is here that I must report that we met with our failure. 

Upon entering the basement we observed a woman dressed in nun's’ habit and a pair of young novices bound with ropes in the corner of the room. Sadly we were not stealthy enough in our approach and the woman - black eyes confirming the earlier suspicions of the presence of demons - was interrupted in her work. 

Briefly I saw a glint of pale blue light captured in a glass jar on the floor at her feet and another in her hand which she dropped upon being surprised - smashing as it impacted with the floor. Though I could not be sure from my vantage point; it seemed to me that the light held within darted out and towards one of the captive young women. 

To my horror and great sadness we were not able to intervene quickly enough to prevent what happened next as the demon proceed to slit the throats of her captives - presumably to prevent them providing us with information with regards to her purpose - and smoked out before I could even begin to attempt reverse exorcism. 

We searched the remainder of the basement as best we could for further evidence, but enough noise had been made to rouse some of the other occupants of the convent, and Jones was understandably hesitant to be found alone with an unconscious nun and two slaughtered novices and thus we fled - returning with little insight and a heavy heart for the loss of those poor young women.  
\---

Sam finished reading and looked up at Kit, eyes wide with surprise. “I think I might know what we’re dealing with!”


	4. The water tried to take her

Sam gathered up his things, throwing the books and laptop hurriedly back into his bag. He turned to Kit excitedly, exclaiming, “I wasn’t even sure they really existed!” Before she could respond, he was racing headlong into verbalising his own thought process out loud, caught up in the thrill of revelation. “Ok, but I’ll have to check that first . . .there’s only two options and I don’t want to take the first.”

“Sam. Slow down.”

“Sorry.” He slowed a little in his frantic activity. “I’m just a little thrown I guess, but it makes a lot of sense. And makes sense of why nothing was making sense.” He shook his head. “You know what I mean.”

“Not really.” Kit frowned.

“I think we’re dealing with an undine.”

“A what?”

“They are an incredibly rare phenomenon. So rare I wasn’t sure they really existed, but it's the only thing that fits! They are created when someone who loses their soul is killed and their soul cannot be returned to them. The Woman of Letters who wrote the journal only mentioned one light heading back towards the girls when they were killed, but there were two of them there and two jars.” Sam paced agitatedly back and forth as he spoke.

“You think they were the girls’ souls in the jars? Is that even possible?” Kit sounded incredulous. Of course to most people it would sound unlikely.

“It’s possible. I worked a case a couple of years back in a convent where the same thing was happening - demons extracting people’s souls.”

“Wow ok, that’s a lot to process. So what happened to her, if the soul was left in the jar?”

She became . . . not a spirit or a ghost exactly, that’s what was giving the strange EMF readings. Spirits are souls, udine are more like a reflection. The parts of the consciousness that remain after a soul is lost, thoughts and memories that are caught, unable to move on without a soul to help carry them. They behave like a spirit, but with less focus, the cold and static electric and EMF are all more scattered, which is why they were so all over the place.”

Maybe he should have taken more notice of the unseasonable cold, Sam thought, but the weather had been so unpredictable since the darkness it hadn’t seemed so remarkable.

“Undine are compelled to find their soul in order to move on. Because of their nature as reflections they are generally limited to water and ice, unless they can grow strong enough to possess someone. Most undine never find their soul and so they end up becoming a scavenger, luring people to them and drawing on scraps of their souls.”

“So what do we do? Can we kill it?” Kit asked.

Sam stopped his restless pacing. “That’s why we need to go back to the house.”

\---

They arrived at Liz’s house, standing now black and foreboding against the moonlit sky. He turned to Kit and asked. “Can you hear it?”

“Yes. I can feel it too, like every hair is standing on end.” She shivered. “But I don’t understand, you said the undine has been out on Coldwater lake for the last three days, so why is the house still like this?”

“Because it's not the undine doing it,” Sam said simply, racing up the path and pulling out his lock picks. 

The basement was just as he’d left it, shovel propped against the wall and the hole gaping next to it. Sam took a breath, steadying himself against every nerve in his body which felt as though it had been set on fire. 

He grasped hold of the shovel and, hoping against hope that he was right about this. Closed his eyes. “Show me” he breathed. The basement flickered into view behind his eyelids, for a moment there was nothing, nothing but the dirt floor and the hole that had been carved into it. Then it flared into life, a shining blue light, shimmering just below the earth, mere paces from the hole. She’d been so close. Sam’s eyes opened. He began to dig.

\---

Dean stood still at the edge of the lake, rapturously held in place by the song. 

It was louder now and as he looked out toward the centre of the lake, he saw her. Her clothes were sodden through, and she stood stock still, seeming to flicker in and out, one moment appearing young and tall, the next a waifish, skeletal form, long, black hair streaming out behind her in the breeze. She smiled, both warm and that drawn back rictus, and beckoned to him. 

He stepped out onto the ice.

\---

Sam freed the jar at last from its earthen grave. The contents still shone, bright and glistening. Two initials were etched into the glass: J.T. Jasmine Thompson. He sighed with relief and held it out for Kit to take as he clambered back out of the hole he’d dug.

Kit held it up before her, features lit with delicate blue, eyes wide with wonder at the sight.

“It’s beautiful!” She turned the jar carefully, watching as the soul swirled, its own tiny galaxy.

“Yeah,” Sam’s face also bore enraptured awe. “Yeah, it really is.”

“What do we do now?”

Sam extended his hand and she returned the jar gingerly to him.

\---

As they left the house Sam felt his phone buzz it his pocket and saw that there was a missed call and message there from Dean.

“Hey Sammy, I’ve headed back to Coldwater. If I get down there quick I might be able to see the mysterious watery bitch in action. I’ll call you if I need back up.”

Sam felt his heart plummet. What the hell was Dean thinking going down there alone! They had no time to lose.

\---

They raced down towards the edge of the lake, Sam having lept almost instantly from the Impala. Kit followed close on his heels.

Coldwater was still. Not a sighing breath of wind nor the flicker of shadows to break the eerie mirrored silver.

“Are they-?” Kit panted as she caught up to Sam, joining him on the shore.

Sam shook his head. He slung the bag off his shoulder and onto the ground, crouching to retrieve what he needed. Kit dropped down to her knees beside him and he felt a comforting hand on his back. He turned to her and inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Wait here.” He pushed himself back to his feet, clutching the jar in his right hand. The contents shone like brightest starlight, swirling nebula, lighting up the night. 

He strode purposefully towards the water’s edge, holding the jar out before him like a beacon.

“I found it,” he shouted out across the lake; somehow, despite the lack of wind, his voice was swallowed up, falling muffled and thin mere feet in from of him. Sam searched the expanse of ice desperately for some sign of movement, but nothing had changed. He repeated the cry, holding the jar aloft. Still nothing.

He glanced over his shoulder to where Kit sat perched on a rock at the top of the pebbly beach. She shook her head. He drew in a breath and, turning back toward the lake edge, stepped out onto the ice.

It was as if he had crossed through a veil; as soon as both feet made contact with the frozen expanse before him, he shivered, feeling the night draw in around him. He could no longer see Kit. His heart thudded hard and insistent in his chest, but there was no sound, only the creak of ice beneath his feet and the now all-too-familiar crackle of static.

Something dark and shadowy skated under him, under the ice, darting out towards the centre of the lake. There she stood, a faint a flickering thing, seeming unable to hold a single form, shifting with increasing rapidity between the bedraggled Liz and the sinuous fragment that remained of Jasmine. A shout rent the night air and Sam, recognising the voice instantly as belonging to Dean, now threw all caution to the wind, hurtling towards the lake’s centre. He felt the ice straining to hold his weight as he ran. It was thinner out here and there were gaps that looked ominously like places where the ice had collapsed, pulling somebody down into the depths of the lake.

He could see Dean now, limbs thrashing wildly through the water, the missing chunk of ice around him confirming Sam’s earlier suspicions. The chaotically shifting figure of the undine slipped silently into the water beside Dean. She barely even seemed to register Sam’s presence, certainly she didn’t acknowledge it, all her energy and attention focused intently upon her prey. Hands reached out, grasping at Dean’s hair and Sam let out a breathless “NO!” as she forced Dean’s head under the water, holding him there with vice-like grip until his body went limp. Her fingertips then splayed out towards Dean’s chest, pressing the flat of her palm firmly over his heart.

A faint stream of light began to pull from Dean’s torso, seeping into the undine’s flesh, and for a second the flickering form of Jasmine seemed to pull away from Liz’s body, hanging detached in the air before her. Her head tilted back, bathing in the light emanating from Dean’s prone form.

Sam seized his moment, racing forward and grasping hold of her shoulder. He wrenched her sharply away from Dean, breaking the connection between the two. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean slipping below the surface once more. Shit! He had to be quick.

“Jasmine!” he cried out, thrusting the jar out in front of him once more. “Jasmine. Please!”

This seemed to finally grab her attention and she whipped round to face him. Jasmine’s long, jet-black hair splaying out behind her as if caught in some unseen, unfelt breeze, but it was Liz that looked back at him, wide-eyed with terror, her lips scrabbling to form words her throat wouldn’t let her utter.

Sam reached out, grasping her hand firmly in his own, 

“It’s going to be ok. Don’t worry.”

He could hear the ticking of the clock in the back of his mind; his brother had been under the water for a minute now. There was no time.

Desperately he pressed the vessel full of shimmering light to her still-outstretched palm, willing her to understand.

“I’ve found it,” he repeated once again, his voice lower this time, but infused with breathless urgency. Her fingers curled gently around the jar and as she brought her other hand up, reaching out towards the light with wonderment, he knew she understood.

Sam unscrewed the lid. The captive soul darted out, drawn instantly towards Jasmine’s form. The light shimmered, casting a beautiful, pale blue glow around them. 

Kit, from the shore, for the first time since Sam had stepped out onto the ice, caught distant sight of the two, or was it three?, ghostly figures in the distance.

The dancing light coiled itself around the undine, pulling the tattered fragments of Jasmine with it. Her visage flickered one final time and Sam saw her then, not the terror-filled eyes of Liz, nor the sunken and hollow features of the undine, but Jasmine as she had been, young and whole, before everything had been torn from her. A smile blossomed across her face, soft and full of unspoken gratitude.

Liz collapsed forward into Sam’s waiting arms, the galaxy swirling around them dimming as he gently lowered her to the ice, smoothing the hair back from her eyes and whispering quiet reassurance. “It’s all right. It’s over. It’s over.”

Three minutes.

Sam frantically stripped off his coat, somehow still having the presence of mind to drape it over Liz for extra warmth. Hardly thinking except to count every extra second that passed, Sam heaved a deep breath and plunged into the depths. The bone-deep cold of the water pressing hard against his chest, he felt his lungs beginning to seize up with shock. He had a minute at most before his breathing arrested entirely. Dean had less before his brain shut down from lack of oxygen. He swam deeper, pushing himself on against his body’s insistent urge to surface and draw breath.

At last he caught sight of him. Sam reached out, pulling Dean up, hooking under his armpits and locking his arms across his chest. He was deathly pale, and Sam felt a pulse of blind panic course through him at the sight. Sam felt his head swim with the lack of oxygen, but kicked back hard, powered now by nothing but pure adrenaline and cast iron will.

The water was dark and murky, Sam’s limbs leaden and burning white hot with exertion, the glimmer of moonlight that glinted off the lake’s surface his only guide. Or was that the white spots that had begun to form at the periphery of his vision?

His head broke the surface at last and he felt air rush, sharp and painful and blessed, into his lungs. The dead weight . . . oh god. He pushed back the thought. The weight of Dean in his arms and pressed against his chest was suddenly, insistently obvious as the intake of breath after breath sent oxygen coursing round his body. By some miracle he managed to haul Dean up and onto the ice, praying desperately for it to hold his weight, before dragging himself up on shivering arms and collapsing next to his brother.

“Sam!”

He turned his head to see the blurred shape racing across the ice towards them.

The figure dropped down next to him, grasped hold of his shoulder and shook it gently.

“Don’t close your eyes, you hear me?”

Sam nodded groggily.

“Good. Good.”

“Dean . . . is he . . .?” Sam battled through the fog that clouded his mind and vision, “. . . breathing?”

Kit leant over to where Dean lay, pressing an ear against his chest. Sam watched as she counted. One. Two. Three. Four.

“Just.”

Sam felt the heady rush of relief.

“Can you stand?” She was back at his side now, hands hooking under his arms just as he had done for Dean at the bottom of the lake.

He nodded and braced his hands against the frozen lake surface as best he could without them slipping out from under him as she guided him upright, pushing back for leverage as he felt her begin to lift.

The fog had begun to clear now and though every inch of him ached and screamed for him to lie back down and just sleep he steadied himself enough to shamble over to where Liz lay, still bundled up under his coat.

Kit was at her other side seconds later and between the two of them Sam managed to scoop her up into his arms, holding her tight against his chest, head tucked below his chin to keep her steady.

“You ok?” Kit asked, concern lacing her voice.

“Yeah. Yeah.” He gave a weak smile. “Been worse.” He paused, looking back to where Dean was still curled up on his side. “Could you stay with him?”

“You sure you’ll be alright?”

“Promise.” His arms shook with the effort. “I’ll be back.”

She nodded and dropped down to her knees beside Dean. Sam set off across the ice, headed for the distant shore. Behind him he heard Kit shout. “You better hurry back! No way I’m doing mouth to mouth if this one stops breathing, you hear me!”

Sam couldn’t help but smile just a little.


	5. Love in her had not yet died

The blackened floorboards creaked pitifully as Sam picked his way across them. Skirting the places where the heat from the fire had collapsed the floor entirely, gaping holes plummeting down into seeming nothingness. 

He sat down on the corner of the bed. Facing away towards the open window, lest looking her in the eye would cause her to vanish like smoke.

A warm body pressed against his back, arms snaking gently round his waist, hands covering his own. Fingers laced together.

Slow tears tracked down his face, tracing the contours of his cheekbones, taste of them salty on his lips. He leaned back into the embrace.

“I did it, Jess.”

There’s no reply except her hands coming up to smooth through his hair, to cup the line of his jaw, tilting his head back towards her gently parted lips.

“Sam.”

\---

“Sam?”

He woke to see Kit standing above him. His limbs unfolded from the rather cramped positions they’d assumed, squashed into the small armchair next to the bed.

“Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have woken you.”

Sam gave a resigned shrug and clambered somewhat unsteadily back to his feet, his body still sleep-heavy and wracked with exhaustion.

“Everything ok?” He inquired.

“Liz just woke. I know you probably don’t want to leave your brother.” They both glanced back at the still form in the bed. “But she was asking about you, about the man on the ice.”

“Oh.” Sam looked down at his feet. 

“I dunno how much she remembers exactly, she was definitely fuzzy.” Kit glanced wearily up at Sam. “I think maybe she could use some better answers than I can give her right now.”

\---

“Hey.” Sam poked his head round the door to Liz’s room, rapping his knuckles gently on the wood before entering.

Liz sat up a little straighter in the bed and pulled the sheets up to her chest.

“Are you cold?” He grabbed up a spare blanket from the chair in the corner of the room and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” She smiled, tired but grateful.

“Do you mind?” Sam gestured towards the armchair, twin of the one he’d just left in Dean’s room. Liz shook her head. Watching him intently as he made himself vaguely comfortable.

“I’m Sam,” he held out his hand towards her.

“Liz,” she responded, “though I guess you knew that. You’re the guy aren’t you?” She spoke with increasing intensity. “The one who was with me on the ice?”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

She reached out and took his hand. “Thank you.” She looked like there was more she wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words to articulate just now.

“Are you alright?” Sam paused, flushing slightly. “I mean apart from the obvious.” He gestured around at the room and towards the IV sticking into her arm.

“Honestly, I have no idea.”

“Yeah. I uh. I get that.”

“The nurses were asking why I was out there, on the lake. I didn’t even know what to say.” Liz paused, looking down at her hands. “Everything I want to say sounds crazy. I’m not even sure I believe me, you know?”

“If it helps, I’m pretty good at crazy.” His features softened, open and inviting.

“I was so trapped. I couldn’t . . .” Her voice broke a little and he found himself taking up her hand again and squeezing in quiet reassurance. “It was . . . terrifying. Watching myself do things I had no control over. I . . . I’m sorry . . . you couldn’t understand.”

“I understand,” he swallowed past a lump in his throat and she looked up at him with surprise, though his eyes were firmly fixed on the floor. He cleared his throat, scuffing his foot awkwardly on the floor. He was almost surprised he said that out loud. Eventually he met her eyes again and spoke out, a little clearer this time “I understand and I’m so, so sorry.”

“What was she?” The unspoken, ‘why did she do this?’ hung in the air between them.  
“That’s . . . complicated.”

“I don’t think things can get much more complicated than they already are.” She smiled ruefully.

“She was something called an undine. But she was also a girl called Jasmine, a part of her anyway.”

“She was looking for something . . .” Her brow creased in consternation. Sam could see it on her face, the effort of untangling the mess of sensations, thoughts, and memories, trying to process which were her own and which were imposed upon her. It was exhausting.

“I found it.”

Liz inclined her head in acknowledgement, her features still twisted up in confusion. “I think I need to sleep.”

Sam made to stand up but she stopped him, a light touch on his shoulder.

“Could you . . . could you come back? Tomorrow maybe.” The words tumbled out of her. “I just . . . it’s good, talking to someone who knows, you know?”

Sam hesitated for a moment, his fingers twisted together, thumb scuffing lightly over his palm. “Of course.” He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “That would be good.” 

He fished around in his pocket; pulling something small and silvery from it he pressed the object into her palm. “It’s uh, it’s a sleep talisman. Turn it over in your fingers three times before going to sleep. It . . .” he cleared his throat again “. . . it helps, with the dreams.” He saw her move to protest, but he gingerly closed her fingers around it. “You’ll need it. I can manage a couple of nights, I’ve done it before.”

\---

Sam made his way back to Dean’s room. Kit was sat in the armchair, knees pulled upto her chest and nose in a book.

“Hey,” she looked from her book as he entered.

“Hey,” Sam replied. “You should go home, it’s been a long night. Thanks for staying with him.”

“No problem,” she stood and grinned up at him. She stretched like a cat, stifling a small yawn.

“Go home!” he repeated.

“Ok, ok, I’m going.”

“Good.” he smiled fondly.

Kit gathered up what little stuff she had with her and Sam shuffled sideways, out of the doorway, making way for her to leave.

Kit stopped before him, hands on hips in mock offense. “What I don’t even get a hug before I go?”

“Oh, um,” Sam flushed scarlet.

“I’m kidding!” she tapped him lightly on the arm. But before she knew what was happening Sam leant down, enveloping her in his arms.

He pulled back, looking a little awkward. “I, uh . . . we’ll be in town for a couple more days, while Dean’s holed up here. I guess . . . um . . . do you want to I don’t know, hang out or something, tomorrow maybe?” The tips of his ears were bright red. 

Kit’s face broke into a wide smile, “I’d love that.”

She pulled out a pen and notepad from her bag and scribbled a number across it, tearing out the sheet and handing it to Sam. “Give me a text or something,” she paused, then added, “any time you want, ok?”

Sam returned the smile. “Ok.”

\---

An hour passed, Sam hunched up in the bedside chair once more, before Dean awoke, just as Sam was drifting into half sleep himself.

Dean blinked, bleary eyed and disorientated.

“Hey,” Sam shuffled the chair a little closer.

Dean seemed to the have fully returned to consciousness now as he turned to Sam and uttered. “You are a fucking idiot.”  
Sam gave a weary half smile and responded dryly “Remind me not to bother saving you next time.”

“You could have died Sam coming out onto the ice like that!” There was a note of genuine worry there that Sam hadn’t heard in awhile.

“I know.” Sam stated matter-of-factly. “And you could have died, would have died if we hadn’t turned up.” Dean didn’t seem to know how to answer that.

“You’re going to be here a couple more days I’m afraid.” Sam added apologetically.

“Great. You know how much I hate hospitals Sammy.” Dean gave the glare of a man already plotting ways to make the doctors let him leave early.

“You’re staying here,” Sam said firmly. “You’ve had hypothermia and almost drowned, I think that’s earned you a couple of days stay put at least.”

“Fine.” 

Sam was no more convinced that Dean wouldn’t be making good his escape the moment he saw his chance, but he sighed resignedly, he knew a losing battle when he saw it.

They sat and talked for a little while longer, Sam told Dean about the undine and Jasmine, his face shining with wonderment as he spoke of the lights that had danced round their heads and the look of peaceful rest upon Jasmine’s face as her soul returned to her. Dean looked at him with a strange and unreadable expression as he talked.

Eventually Sam gave a yawn, unable to reign in the need for sleep any longer.

Dean looked up at him, placing and hand on Sam’s shoulder, and the action was so gentle that Sam forgot to flinch. “Go get some sleep Sammy.”

“I’m ok . . .” Sam tried to reply.  
“I mean it.” Dean responded stern, but somehow softer than Sam had expected.

With some reluctance, but mostly tired relief, Sam stood, shrugging on his coat and made to leave, “I’ll come back in the morning, ok?”

“Yeah.”

Sam headed for the door.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, turning back to face him.

“Thanks for, uh, you know. Saving my life or whatever.” Dean paused, looking slightly awkward. “You, you did good today.”

\---

Sam let himself back into the motel room and looked around, the room seemed somehow lighter than last he’d been there, though the night had since arrived.

He gathered up two tee-shirts, a shirt and pair of jeans and stuffed them into a bag to take to Dean in the morning, as well as Dean’s iPod.

Finally he let exhaustion sweep him, shrugging off shirt and tugging off jeans he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.

Sam slept and dreampt of shining, flickering lights, and grateful smiles and breakfast in a warm diner.


End file.
